


that glorious song of old

by hockeycaptains



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Gen, Holidays, M/M, Magic, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 15:45:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8997019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hockeycaptains/pseuds/hockeycaptains
Summary: "Carey turns his attention back to the crystal display. Any other morning, PK would be here next to him, poking fun at the people who come in here and genuinely believe that anything in this store can help them “tap into the energy of the universe” the way it’s advertised to. Any other morning, Carey would argue that there’s something kind of beautiful about blind faith and the things people put their hearts into when nothing else seems to be working."orSpies, magic, and the opposite of going home for the holidays.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cinderlily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinderlily/gifts).



> Title from "It Came Upon a Midnight Clear." Because holidays.

Carey gets the news from Brendan during the opening perimeter check, which means it’s garbled until the third try because Brendan is really, really not a morning person.

“He what?” asks Carey, and stops so suddenly that Brendan goes on walking without him.

At his feet, the frost is biting into the hem of his socks where it creeps over his shoes, and the cold is soaking through, but Carey doesn’t even really have the energy to mutter a warming spell right now, face numb with surprise.

Brendan spins on his heel impatiently, half-zombie and half-irritated that they’re not moving. His foot makes a crunching sound against the snow and pavement. “He got transferred,” repeats Brendan, “to the States.”

“What the fuck is in the States?” asks Carey, way too harshly.

Brendan just shrugs, looks tired beyond the early hour. “Another branch,” says Brendan. “I overheard the bosses talking about it earlier. They said it’d be a better fit for him.”

 _Bullshit_ , thinks Carey, suddenly so angry that he forgets himself and a shower of sparks falls from his hands. One of them almost hits Brendan, fizzling out right in front of him.

“Cool it,” says Brendan. “Seriously, we don’t need you getting shipped off, too.”

They won’t ship him off, thinks Carey bitterly. No one else can put up wards the way he can, not even in the States. Like a brick wall, people say. They’re not really wrong. Carey focuses on that instead, reinforcing the trail of ash at the perimeter of the shop and infusing it with more protective magic. He and Brendan continue in silence.

By the time he’s satisfied with his own work, the sun has fully risen, and the first city-goers are passing by on foot.

The two of them head inside the shop just in time to turn the sign from _Closed_ to _Open_ , and Carey takes a couple of deep, steadying breaths before turning back to Brendan. “When does he leave?”

Brendan’s expression seems off without any hint of mischief or bubbly excitement the way it usually is. “He already left,” says Brendan, and Carey hates the way his tone goes apologetic.

He kind of wants to break something, but he doesn’t. “Okay,” he says instead, voice so flat he’s almost tricked himself into thinking he’s calm about this. “Thanks for telling me.”

“Wasn’t gonna keep it a secret, dude,” answers Brendan, shrugging it off.

Carey turns his attention back to the crystal display. Any other morning, PK would be here next to him, poking fun at the people who come in here and genuinely believe that anything in this store can help them “tap into the energy of the universe” the way it’s advertised to. Any other morning, Carey would argue that there’s something kind of beautiful about blind faith and the things people put their hearts into when nothing else seems to be working.

Carey knows this shop is a front to keep the rest of it intact behind the scenes, but he’s always liked working here.

Today, though, it all feels hollow in a way it never has before.

 _Hope your flight was okay,_ he texts PK. There’s no answer for a few minutes, so Carey resists the urge to keep refreshing it, puts his phone away, and gets back to work.

//

A week passes, and he can’t stop thinking about the transfer.

The store is quieter without PK, and even though he did eventually reply to Carey’s text (a concise set of ten emojis that Carey can only take to mean that the flight was, in fact, okay), Carey has a hard time working here when he knows that things happened so quickly. There’d been some tension between PK and the bosses, sure, but none of them thought that this would be the end result.

PK’s good at what he does. A little showy sometimes, sure, and occasionally distracting to be around, but there was never any actual question that he’s the best undercover agent in the whole company.

Except for how apparently Montreal didn’t want him anymore.

“You look like you want to set those papers on fire,” comments Alex, grabbing said files and lifting them out of Carey’s line of sight. “Can’t do that, we need these.”

“We need someone who can go undercover,” retorts Carey.

Alex shoots him a quelling look. Carey doesn’t remember when the kid grew up into something of a leader on this team, but he’s no rookie anymore. “We have Shea now,” says Alex. The line of his jaw is tight, the only part of him betraying his displeasure.

Shea is not PK. Shea is good at his job, working in the traditional style Canadians are so fond of. He’s stoic, unreadable, impossible to parse. Where PK presents exactly the emotions he wants to manipulate someone into trusting him, Shea gives away absolutely nothing. It’s not a bad strategy, and it’s earned him plenty of accolades in the past, but Carey bristles anyway at the change.

Carey doesn’t answer, tight lipped, and Alex sighs. “I know,” he says. “It’s stupid. But we can’t just stop working because we’re mad.”

Carey would very much like to stop working because he’s mad, but he takes a breath instead. Even when he’s incensed, his zen never tends to be hard to reach. 

“It is stupid,” Carey agrees, and then he gets back to work.

//

He gets the call three days later, under a week before Christmas, and he almost can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“You’re shipping me off for temporary coverage?” he asks, careful to keep his tone neutral. He hasn’t been sent out on orders like that since he was a rookie, still training and not quite confident in his own abilities yet.

“Their defense specialist decided to take his vacation early, and their backup is still recovering from the last attack. We’ve been told the management wants you specifically, and we have plenty of young talent here, as you know. We can spare you for a few days, and it would do a lot to improve general sentiment around the company toward our branch.” The boss takes a breath. “I’m going to be honest with you, Carey. This is more of a diplomatic assignment than it is about skill.”

Things have been tense in the company lately. When there’s this much magical talent concentrated in so many different cities, things are bound to get competitive, no matter how many times the company heads reiterate that they’re all meant to be working together. More and more, there’s been a fracture growing between the Canadian branches and those in the States, tradition bumping up against expansion bumping up against the wave of young prospects using magic in ways that no one could have expected.

Montreal in particular has ruffled some feathers with its staunch traditionalism. Carey is under no illusions as to what this is.

Carey shuts his eyes briefly. “You’re using me as, what, a statement of political goodwill?”

“Exactly,” says the boss, sounding pleased. “It should only be a few days, and then you will return. Being away for Christmas won’t be an issue, will it?”

Carey resigns himself to going on this trip whether he wants to or not. “No, sir,” he says. “Not a problem. What branch exactly are you sending me to?”

“Nashville,” says the boss, voice tilting down.

And oh, thinks Carey. Of course.

He says goodbye, hangs up the phone, and starts to pack a bag.

//

PK picks him up from the airport with a sign that just has a bunch of massive, glittery dollar signs on them. “Carey Cash Money Price!” he yells as soon as he sees Carey, like Carey didn’t understand the sign immediately upon seeing it.

He can’t help but smile, though. “Heard someone requested me,” he says, “so here I am.”

PK grins back, bright and easy. He makes happiness look effortless, like his natural state. Carey envies him sometimes for it. “It was probably Josi,” says PK, looking for all the world like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. “He’s a huge fan of yours.” Carey highly doubts that Roman Josi is a huge fan of his.

“What’s the job?” asks Carey, smacking at PK’s arm when he tries to shoulder Carey’s duffel bag for him.

“Basic stuff,” says PK, leading the way to the car. “Little bit of espionage, grab some intel, get out. You gonna be in my ear?”

“If they’ll let me,” answers Carey, honest. PK is kind of a defensive specialist’s nightmare considering how he not only dislikes going by the book, but often just throws it out entirely. He’s smart, though--that’s what people tend to forget about PK. He’s not one of the best in the field for nothing. 

PK toys with something on his phone. “They’ll let you,” he says, so self-assured that Carey can’t do anything but agree.

They get in the car, and the ride is slow with holiday traffic jamming every possible intersection. PK is playing Christmas tunes, humming along jauntily, and Carey takes a slow, grounding breath. He presses his forehead against the cool glass of the window and swallows down the emotions threatening to crest up.

There’s a job to be done.

//

It’s weird to be sitting in a debrief room where everything is a lurid, vaguely awful gold-yellow, but Carey’s seen weirder in his day.

He casts a quick recognition charm to avoid the awkward _I think we’ve met but I’m not sure and I definitely don’t remember your name_ moments that he swore he’d put behind him a long time ago, and he’s sitting next to PK and it almost almost feels like the last week didn’t happen at all.

Except then he looks up and sees the yellow again.

He shakes his head, casts away Montreal’s red and blue from his mind, and tries to pay attention.

It’s Fisher that’s up front relaying the information from the bosses of the Nashville branch. “Alright guys, this is gonna be a quick in and out mission. We’re working it over Christmas, obviously, so if you don’t want to be here for it, speak up or forever hold your peace.”

The room is quiet. People look around, but no one says anything. Carey wonders who he’s here to replace.

“Great,” says Fisher. “Then here are the assignments: Josi, Johansson, you two are on recon, head out now and tell us what you can about security by midnight. We have some information, but nothing on the specific guards for tonight. Nealer, get on tech, grab whoever you need with you. Subban, take Price and catch him up on your game plan. Everybody else, come with me, we’ll talk surveillance and counterspells.”

The room erupts into movement, and Carey follows PK into one of the back rooms, away from the hustle and bustle of the debrief area. Two floors up, the storefront welcomes customers in to buy the usual company cover up goods: crystals, herbs, books, etc. Down here, in the underground section, it’s all business.

“Alright, Pricey, here’s the deal,” starts PK, sitting down at a desk and pulling out a manila folder. He opens it and drops a stack of photographs on the wood with a heavy thud. “These guys,” he pulls out a few photos that show some men all wearing terrible fedoras and extravagant scarves, “are embezzling money from a firm that has close ties to the company. That firm wants some proof. We’re gonna break in and get that proof.”

“You’re gonna break in,” corrects Carey.

PK rolls his eyes. “You’re gonna be right there with me. Like, metaphorically, or whatever, but still.”

It’s hard to argue with that when Carey will essentially be PK’s handler for this once he gets the rest of the defensive wards up for the base this afternoon.

PK pulls out a blueprint next, marking his entrance and exit points both from the building itself and from the room he’ll be getting the files from. He has his trusty flashlight and gutsy plan that involves using magic to levitate himself over not one, but _two_ guard rotations.

“You gonna talk yourself past the secretary?” asks Carey.

PK smiles, and it’s all teeth. “You fuckin’ know it, baby.”

Carey resigns himself to sitting in on yet another PK flirt-a-thon. Not everything changes, apparently. “The system here’s the same, right?”

“All the tech is the same, and you can even put your very own tracking spell on me,” answers PK sunnily.

“Don’t need your permission for that,” says Carey, instead of admitting that he placed one right before the briefing. He’ll reinforce it later.

PK leans back in his chair, hands behind his head. “Just like old times, isn’t it?”

“It’s been a week,” deadpans Carey.

“Just like old times,” repeats PK, and Carey very carefully does not think about what he’ll be leaving behind come his return to Montreal.

//

PK and a small backup team leave at one in the morning.

Carey’s not technically alone in the observation room with the handler equipment, but he’s dialed in to PK’s every move, and the rest of it fades out into background noise. “You copy?” asks Carey.

PK lifts a hand in front of his face where Carey can see, thumb and forefinger connected in an ‘a-okay’ gesture. “Loud and clear,” says PK, which is unnecessary and reckless.

“Someone could hear you,” chides Carey, but it’s a moot point, because PK isn’t worried and neither is Carey. They’ve gotten him out of stickier situations before.

“We good to go?” asks PK.

Carey checks the tape from the cameras they’d set up earlier, sees that everything is as they expected it to be. When he taps into the spell fields around the building, they feel smooth, untouched, undisturbed, and undetected. “Yes,” he tells PK. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“Born ready,” says PK, and then he starts to move.

It’s always surreal being a handler for any period of time because of the duality of the magic and non-magic aspects of the surveillance. On the one hand, Carey’s eyes are trained on the screens in front of him, tracking any movement at the edge of the frame that PK might miss. His ears are locked onto the audio, listening as best he can for doors opening and closing, spells being cast, etc. On the other hand, his gut is connected to the magic surrounding PK: the tracking and protection spells Carey cast, and the wider sensing spells that were put together by the rest of the team earlier in the day.

PK makes his way quickly through the agreed route, Carey careful to watch his every move. “Next left,” says Carey, when he feels a blip in the castings.

PK obeys without comment. Carey takes some pride in that. PK doesn’t defer to just anyone.

Carey hadn’t asked who PK’s new handler is here, if he’s been assigned one yet. Carey’s been relegated to shop duty in the handful of days since the trade, isn’t sure what they plan to do with him.

“I’m going off script,” warns PK.

Carey sighs. “Why?”

He doesn’t get an answer, which is just typical. PK straightens his suit jacket and directly approaches one of the guards he was supposed to be avoiding. “Hi,” says PK, almost too loud to be casual, “do you know where the bathroom is?”

The guard looks at him suspiciously, one hand twitching for something in his waistband. A gun, maybe. Interesting choice, considering PK could obliterate him magically with just a few words, but maybe this guard doesn’t have magic. It wouldn’t be the first time an organization kept their employees in the dark. Carey has moral issues with that, but he won’t go into them. He has an idiot to keep alive.

“We’re closed,” says the guard shortly. 

“Oh,” says PK, looking around. He sounds genuinely confused, and even Carey would almost believe him if he didn’t know better. “Wow, sorry. Can I piss really quick and then clear out?”

The guard just looks at PK, steady and unimpressed. His hand keeps moving, slowly, in the corner of the frame. “I suggest you leave now before we have trouble,” says the guard.

“Now I don’t want trouble,” PK tries to reassure him, but he also makes no move to leave.

The guard’s hand moves faster toward the gun.

“He’s armed, you idiot,” says Carey. “Knock him out before he shoots you in the head.” 

PK mutters a quick spell, and the guard collapses with his gun in his hand, safety still thankfully on. “Fuck,” says PK, and he somehow still sounds like he’s smiling. “That was a close one, thanks, Pricey.”

“You’re an asshole,” replies Carey. “Go get the files and get out, he’s not gonna be out forever.”

“Love you, too,” says PK, which is unfair because he’s right.

The rest of the mission is quick, the only snag being when PK uses the wrong spell to crack the server and almost blows up the entire building. Carey is quick to walk him through the counterspell, PK for once not having a smartass comment in the face of danger.

He comes back in one piece, though, smiling and wielding a flash drive with all the information they need, and something in Carey’s chest loosens.

“Hey,” says Carey.

PK’s smile brightens. “Man of the hour right here,” he tells the room, trying and failing to drag Carey into a headlock. “Stopped me from getting my head blown off _twice_.” Everyone makes the appropriate surprised and impressed sounds, and Carey shrugs it off, too tired to be in the spotlight.

PK notices, because of course PK notices. “Wanna bounce? We can get coffee or something, wind down.”

“Not sure caffeine is the best way to wind down,” says Carey, and they both know he’s saying yes.

PK nudges him in the shoulder. “Caught me. I’m just really craving some coffee. Come on, it’s on me.”

Carey doesn’t agree out loud, but then again he doesn’t have to.

PK walks out of the room. Carey follows.

There’s a 24 hour diner down the way with their name on it.

//

At the diner, they both order coffee, and Carey suddenly feels a lot older than he is. Wasn’t it just yesterday that he and PK were up-and-comers, likely to be tied together for the rest of their careers? Their lives, even?

And now they’re here, at 3 in the morning on Christmas day, sipping coffee in a city that only belongs to one of them. Carey has a few days left before he has to go back to Montreal, but something about this moment feels particularly important, like the end of something and the beginning of something else tangled up in each other, like the frozen time between what already happened and what’s to come.

Outside, the streets are quiet, no doubt a rare occurrence in this city. The street lights are bright, and every now and again a car slips by. 

Tomorrow, they’ll sleep in, and then they’ll go to lunch and maybe they’ll sightsee a bit. Carey doesn’t know this city well, and they have the day off after a successful mission. He’ll have to field a call from Montreal, and talk to his family, and finish the debrief paperwork for tonight.

For now, though, it’s just the two of them in this diner.

“Good coffee,” says Carey.

PK hums a little in agreement, mellower now that the edges of the adrenaline are melting into exhaustion. “Gonna miss this,” he says. “Not sure what we’re gonna do once you leave.”

The casual _we_ stings a little bit. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” says Carey.

PK shoots him a look like he’s being purposefully dense. “Gonna miss _you_ ,” he clarifies, like it’s easy to admit. Maybe it is.

“Yeah,” agrees Carey.

Maybe, when his contract runs out, he’ll do something stupid like request a transfer or leave the company altogether. It’s no sure thing, but it sounds appealing in the artificial light of this diner.

Instead of mulling it over further, Carey lifts his hand as the waitress passes by, sits quietly as she refills his cup.

The future feels fuzzy and distant. It feels like he and PK are choosing each other in this tiny slice of their lives. Like it matters. They can talk about it tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that. They’ve got time.

For now, Carey sits back in the sticky diner booth and stops worrying. Across the table, he and PK meet eyes, and PK smiles, just a small thing. Soft.

Carey smiles back. “Pass the sugar?” he asks PK, and it feels like he’s saying a lot more. 


End file.
